Mend you
by elinnne
Summary: Castiel Mason is a doctor with an uncommon caring for his subject, and Dean Winchester just has one too many accidents involving traffic.  rated M for sexual and angsty themes, but you won't read any of that in this first part.


**Title:** Mend you

**Pairing:** Dean/Castiel

**Rating:** M for angst and sexual themes

**A/N:**This is an AU where Castiel is a highly respected doctor and Dean has one too many accidents involving motorcycle crashes.

**Part 1  
><strong>

"_Dr. Mason to the ER, please, dr. Mason to the ER."  
><em>

He sighs, rubbing his temples with his index fingers as he prepares to leave the comfort of the quiet office. His pager has beeped plenty of times already and he knows he should be on his way, but his feet won't listen.

Castiel Mason is a great surgeon. Highly respected by his colleagues and adored by his patients, never missing a day of work - one of the best there is. He graduated top of his class in Med School and as an intern at Lawrence Memorial Hospital he quickly stood out as the best, earning several approving nods from the lead of staff and even a personal interest from the Chief. He's been offered higher positions at bigger hospitals, but he likes it at Lawrence Memorial. He likes the people, the knowing what to expect from a regular day, he likes having time to take rounds and check properly on his patients. People say he has the brains of a true surgeon, yes, but what really makes him succeed in such caliber is his heart. He's compassionate, caring and sympathetic, making the patients relax and feel at home with his warm and kind touch.

He loves his job, he loves helping people. In his opinion, that's all that matters.

But lately he's started having headaches. He'd feel fine in the morning and all day through lunch, but when the afternoon stress hit his head starts to feel heavy and he locks himself in his office, trying to restrain from downing a couple Xanax and take an early leave. The pains had started occurring more and more often, and today they're worse than ever.

Leaning his right arm on the armchair to heave himself up, he gently uses his left hand to flip his top-drawer open and whip out the small bottle of painkillers. Weighing the bottle in his hand he tries to reason with himself. With the pill he's at risk of making mistakes that could have fatal consequences. Without the pill he won't be able to stand through the day. Coming to a decision, he presses one small pill to his tongue and reaches for the water bottle on his desk. He won't be able to operate, but he'll be in a much preferable mood to take rounds and decisions, and all in all, leaving the operation room alone seems a better option than leaving the hospital all together.

He strides across the office floor and out through the door, hoping he'll make it to the emergency room before they have to call him up on the speaker system again.

"Took your time!"

He turns around at the sound of Dr. Talis' voice, spotting her walking after him through the door. "I was just on my way to your office."

"I'm sorry, Jill, I had some stuff to take care of," Castiel replies, looking at her briefly before skimming the ER. Talis looks like she's about to press the matter, so he hurriedly asks, "What was the big emergency again?"

Stares at him for a couple of seconds, long enough to make him uncomfortable, and then she shrugs, handing him the medical report in her arms. "Motorcycle crash. The dumb bastards are lucky they were both on bikes or one of them wouldn't even have made it in here." She shrugs again. "Henley's taking care of one of the kids, the Chief wants to see me so the other's your responsibility."

Castiel frowns, but before he can argue she's fled the room. The frown grows deeper into his forehead as he takes a look at the report, doesn't recognize any names – thank God - and turns to see the damage himself.

Dr. Henley is bending over one of the emergency beds, doing examinations, and as Castiel approaches he looks up and gives a small smile. "Comatose, both of them" Henley explains as Castiel reaches the beds. "They're lucky there wasn't a car involved, or –"

"Yes, Jill explained," Castiel interrupts absent-mindedly. He's looking down at the other patient, following the tubes from the hydration pack into his underarms and looking once more to Dr. Henley. "I don't understand," Castiel says. "There's nothing to do, they've been hooked to the machines and are being hydrated – unless he's in need of immediate entrails surgery there is nothing for me to do."

"We were asked to move them into private rooms and look after them in case of change of condition."

Henley is a young doctor, just finished with his internship at the hospital. Castiel isn't one to see him self above others, but with his head still thumping, pressing at his temples, he feels annoyance towards whoever has set him to this task. He is a qualified surgeon, dammit, not a baby sitter.

"You could stich him up though, wait for him to wake up," Henley suggests. Castiel merely shoots him a look of irritation. "Talis said they'd probably wake up soon," Henley keeps going, his spirits still high. Castiel has to admire that about him. The young doctor has the naivety of a foal, an optimistic worldview that makes him think that as a doctor he'll be able to save anyone. Castiel suspects he has not yet had a patient die at his own hands – once that happens the positive spark in his eye is sure to disappear.

Castiel looks once more at the unconscious person at his hip, a Mr. Dean Winchester, before consulting the clipboard again. The pain has moved to his forehead and is laying pressure on the back of his eyes.

"Go see if there's a private room available for these two gentlemen," Castiel insists without looking up from the notes. He doubts the ER will be quiet for much longer; spring is such a fine time for traffic accidents and other disasters, and he's expecting the door to burst open with paramedics any second. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Henley hesitate, before nodding shortly and striding out the door.

He waits a few seconds for the door to fully close, and then he drops down on the bed next to Mr. Unconscious and presses his fingers against his forehead. The Xanax helped with the most earsplitting pain, but Castiel still has trouble thinking straight with the constant pressure on his scalp.

"Fuck," he mutters, leaning the full weight of his head in his hands.

"Doctors… shouldn't… curse."

The voice is merely a whisper, and at first Castiel thinks he's imagined it. Then he looks at the patient on the bed in front of him and sees a pair of scrunched eyes eyeing him. The mouth of the man is hanging loose by the tube down his trachea, but small wrinkles at the corner of his eyes tells Castiel he's smiling.

He sits up straight, whether ashamed or worried he doesn't know, and considers the man's medical state. "Mr. Winchester," Castiel says in a calm and informative voice, "Do you know where you are? You are at Lawrence Memorial Hospital, in the emergency room. Do you remember what happened?"

A long sigh. "Crashed."

"Yes, you were lucky you crashed with a gentleman on another motorcycle, or you might not be here talking right now." Why is he repeating the information he was previously so irritated by? The ache presses on. A small shake of his head and he's in control again. "How are you feeling?"

The young man looks at the ceiling, concentrating on his limp body for a minute before croaking, "thirsty."

"I am sorry to inform you then that you will not be able to drink for another twenty-four hours at least. We have yet to be fully aware of your condition, but you are being hydrated by this bag you se here," he puts a gentle index finger on the liquid bag. "You will be moved into a more private room in a short while, until then I suggest you try to go back to sleep." The man looks peacefully at him with hazel eyes. "It will be more comfortable." Pretty fascinating for your average greenish color. He has never thought hazel eyes could be so deep, but these seem to go on forever.

What, what is this? The headache seems to be getting to him.

"Thanks, doc," the man rasps with a final twinkling eye-smile, before closing them, leaving Castiel to shake his head slowly and check the time. Quarter to three. He still has hours left of his day, and then there's the possibility of being called back to work later in the night. He frowns at the idea. Maybe he really has no choice but to inform the Chief of his condition and being spared for the night. Nothing worse in an OR than an unfocused doctor.

* * *

><p>The living room of 54, Redrick road is big, but homey. There is a large, poufy, beige couch in the middle of the room, facing an old television set, and the walls are covered with shelves stacked with book upon book. The salon table is usually spotless, with a fat, white candle in the middle. Right now however it's filled with mugs of water and a small bottle of aspirin. Next to the table lies a pile of medical charts, supposed to be looked through and checked properly by Dr. Castiel Mason, who is currently asleep and drooling on a hand-knitted pillow on the couch.<p>

He had left the hospital straight after explaining his condition to the Chief, and the Chief had understood perfectly. "We all get sick once in a while," the Chief had smiled knowingly, and Castiel had nodded shortly, desperate to get home. The drive home was long and painful, it took all the strength in his body to focus on the road, and he had finally made it home in one piece. The following five minutes had been spent downing aspirin and water, and then he had passed out on the couch, exhausted after the walk from the kitchen.

The clock ticked along and Castiel didn't wake up until midnight, when his phone starts vibrating next to him. His head snaps up and it's light, the aftermath of the painkillers still affecting him. His phone is trapped in the crack of the couch and he presses his fingers down and fishes it out. The display reads "Balthazar" and he sighs. His brother had made a habit of calling him late at night, a habit that did not go well with Castiel's evening routine.

"Hello," he breaths into the receiver, slightly annoyed.

"You awake?" Balthazar had studied abroad and gotten his various degrees in England, and even now that he's back in America his voice has a hint of British to it. Castiel suspects he has kept the accent to receive female attention – very typical Balthazar behavior.

"I am now," Castiel replies, sitting slowly up and taking another sip of water.

"Great! I'm outside."

_Jesus Christ. _Castiel looks at the time again – it's two minutes past midnight and he wonders what the hell Balthazar is doing out at this time. He hangs up, stands up and ruffles a hand through his hair, walks heavily over to the front door and opens it.

Balthazar is leaning at the doorframe, a black jacket over his shoulders and his chest contours visible under a body-hugging v-neck.

"Cas, darling!" he exclaims. "You look terrible. Did I interrupt you in the middle of making love to yourself?" He laughs at his own joke and walks past Castiel into the living room. Sitting down on the couch he picks up one of the cushions and weighs it in his hand. "Jesus, I forgot you took these in when Gran died. Talk about charity, they're hideous." He looks disgustedly at the yellow knitted fabric and then throws it away, looking happily up at Castiel. "Wouldn't mind a drink?"

Castiel shakes his head disbelievingly, finally moving and walking over to the liquor cabinet, fishing out a dusty bottle of whisky. He never drinks, unless at a bar with his colleagues or a glass of wine on Fridays. His liquor cabinet contains that one whisky bottle and a very old Jägermeister.

"Why are you here, Balthazar?" Castiel demands as he pours a glass for his brother. Handing it over, he sits down on the couch next to him.

"Oh, are you not having-" Balthazar asks, indicating to his glass, "Okay, well, little brother, I am here because Mother sent me."

Upon the confused look on Castiel's face, he continues. "She and father are taking us out for dinner this Friday. No getting out."

"And you had to come here to tell me? At twelve pm? You couldn't have called?"

Castiel wonders for a second how Balthazar has survived in this family – as he has wondered many times before. The Masons are a family of courtesy, of rules, of respecting others and keeping to themselves. If Mother had known Balthazar came visiting people at this time of night she would have had a mental breakdown.

His brother just shrugs, downing the whisky in one go. He puts the glass down, looks at it for a couple of seconds, and then he seems to make up his mind about something. "Well," he says, glancing at Castiel. "I came here delivering the message myself because I think I know what they want to tell us."

"And what is that?" Castiel urges, exhausted and head heavy as the drugs wear off.

"I think they're finally getting a divorce," he replies simply.

Castiel's first thought, after the surprise, the sting and the realization has settled, is of his sister. "Does Anna know?"

"I don't think so, unless she's read the signs like I have," Balthazar replies. Then he looks caringly into Castiel's face, searching for his true feelings. "What's your opinion on the matter, Castiel?" he continues, adapting Castiel's signature formal tone.

Castiel doesn't know. All his life his parents have been somewhat absent. Mr. and Mrs. Mason are both well-educated people, and their only wish for their children was for them to be well educated too. In Balthazar and Castiel they got what they wanted; Balthazar being a high-class stockbroker and Castiel a surgeon, but they always seemed disappointed in Anael, the youngest of the siblings. Even with her bright mind and ambitious being, she had never wanted to go down the road her parents had picked out for her, and thus making herself the "black sheep" of the family.

"Who told her about the dinner?" Castiel then asks, ruling out the possibility of his mother calling her.

Balthazar looks guilty. "No one did. I thought I'd save that for you, you two always had that special bond."

It's true. Though Anna had been rebellious as a teenager and had given her siblings much hell for covering up for her, she had always had a special impact on Castiel. While Balthazar had been out scoring women and being his brilliant self, Castiel had hung out with Anna when she needed him to, helping her succeed in whatever she chose (she had tried many things before settling down, and even now Castiel wasn't sure what her career of choice was.) Castiel hadn't spoken with her since she graduated from university with her Masters degree in sociology, which was three years ago. Once out of university she had travelled, not telling anyone where she went, but she had left a phone number for Castiel and a couple of weeks ago she had sent him a text, saying she was back in the country and to meet up for a chat. Neither had had time to meet straightaway, and now the weeks have passed and they still haven't talked.

"Will you call her, Cas?" Balthazar asks, a pleading look on his face, interrupting Castiel's train of thought.

Castiel nods, stands up, and takes Balthazar's empty glass in his hand. "I will."

"Great!" Balthazar looks pleased with himself and stands up to leave, giving Castiel a sharp pat on the back as he goes.

"I'll text you the details!" He's out the door before Castiel can reply.

"Yes, thanks," Castiel sighs, closing the door and hearing Balthazar's car speeding away.

He puts the glass in the dishwasher and walks up the stairs, yearning for his bed to smother him.

* * *

><p>Dean wakes up and immediately wishes he hadn't. Unlike the last time he awoke – the room was dark then and he had felt disoriented – he knows exactly where he is and he wishes so badly he didn't that it makes his broken ribs ache harder and his head spin.<p>

He can't believe he's had another accident. It wasn't his fault this time – the other bike had popped up out of nowhere, uncontrolled it seemed because it was spinning in his direction – and he hadn't had time to stop. He scans his brain but he can't remember anything after the moment his body collided with the asphalt. He's thankful his mind is closing itself. He doesn't want to remember. Nest thing he knows is lying in a hard bed, lights too bright and pain all over. He tries to look to his left but his head won't bucker. He finds it easier to look to his right and a sight so unbearable yet breathtaking takes him over. For one blissful, childish moment he thinks he's in heaven – the man sitting there can be nothing less than an angel. He had mentally rolled his eyes at his own naivety. He's been in this state before and the female angel then had turned out to be a doctor – this one must be too.

But he'd wished he wasn't. He'd wished he could have one glorious moment in heaven, a near-to-death experience if only for a couple of minutes, before returning to the ghastly reality.

Now he's lying in the same bed, but in another room. The room is light and terribly boring. He tries to sit up to walk out, because he is certainly not spending another day in this dull place, but a stabbing pain shoots across his body and he can't move. He can do nothing but lie there, waiting for someone to fix him and help him up.

Lying there, waiting, he thinks of his brother. He thinks of calling him, tries to work out where his phone is, before remembering he can't move. _Dammit. Someone's gonna have to get in here soon_, Dean thinks to himself.

And someone does. And that someone, Dean realizes with a gut-wrenching certainty, is the angel-doctor from before. The man walks in a divine way, his lab-coat flying out behind him trying to keep up with his swift movements. His dark hair is messy and the stubble on his chin gives him a look of scruffiness, but Dean likes it. He enjoys watching him. When the man stops in front of his bed, looking up from a clipboard and blue eyes hit him with an x-ray like intensity, Dean can do nothing but stare.

Then he realizes he must be drugged, because he can't seem to stop the words coming out of his mouth. "You're an angel," he croaks.

The doctor looks at him, bemused, and checks his liquid bag. He then consults the clipboard again, before piercing Dean with another one of those looks.

"Do you know where you are?" The doctor asks, and the familiarity of the question has Dean remembering the day before.

"Yes," he hears himself replying, "how can I forget?"

The doctor smiles slightly – it's an appealing sight, and Dean catches himself wishing to see more of those smiles – _needing_ them.

"My name is doctor Castiel Mason, and I'll be treating you back to health." The doctor then goes into a medical rant, Dean stops paying attention to his words and starts noticing small wrinkles at the corner of the man's eyes, observes the movements of his mouth and the dryness of his lips. When he's done he looks up at Dean and Dean just stares at him, an absent smile on his face.

"So as you understand, we need to keep you under observation for a couple of days, maybe more," the doctor continues. Dean keeps staring. "You understand that?" The doctor asks, seemingly uncertain for the first time.

Dean nods, but it hurts so he stops.

"It says here that your contact person is a Sam Winchester, is that correct?"

"He's my brother," Dean nods again, grimacing at the pain. Dr. Mason notices. "Are your drugs wearing off? I'll call the nurse and we'll get you under again."

"N-no!" Dean croaks. He doesn't want to make a fool of himself again, and he knows that if he lets the doctor drug him there's no knowing what he'll say or do.

Dr. Mason gives him a quizzical look. "Mr. Winchester-"

"Please, call me Dean."

"-I don't think you fully appreciate how much pain you will be in unless we get you more painkillers."

"I don't care, I don't believe in that shit." He feels guilty for cursing. "Give me some good old whisky and I'll be fine."

Castiel catches himself thinking of the dusty whisky bottle in his liquor cabinet. He smiles. "I'm afraid that can't be arranged. We have a strict non-alcohol policy here. Sadly," He adds upon seeing Dean's pained expression. "We have tried to call your brother, but the number we have for him doesn't seem to be in working order."

Dean sighs; Sam's last phone was dropped in a river – by Dean probably, Sam never looses anything – and his number was changed when he bought a new phone. He supposes the hospital only has his old number from the last time Dean was in the hospital. The thought of his brother's anger when the phone was dropped brings back old memories of when they used to be on the road together and Dean goes into a short state of nostalgia, smiling absent-mindedly.

Castiel doesn't know why, but the atmosphere of this room is different than the others. He looks around, trying to find the source of the feeling, and his gaze ends upon the patient, _Dean_. His mind plays with the name, wonders what it will feel like on his tongue, and he gazes into the face and notices small freckles on the man's nose. His face is tan, open, it seems nearly exposed to Castiel and he catches himself wondering what it will feel like to hold it between his hands. "Can you move?" Castiel suddenly asks, forgetting his professional manner for a second, and Dean looks strangely at him.

Dean senses something more to the question, but he quickly pushes it away. "I don't know. I tried, but it hurt –" he stops, not eager to pursue the drug-issue.

Castiel looks at him and he wishes he could help the man in any other way than to put him under narcosis. It never seems right to him to see young, capable people in hospital, but there's something different about this patient, something boyish, and he seems more misplaced in the sickbed than most people. Another vision clouds his mind, of a young dark-haired boy in a similar room. He suddenly feels himself overcome by emotion.

"Well, if there's nothing more I can do for you," Castiel starts, feeling absent and out-of-place. He turns rapidly and walks, unaware of the sinking feeling in Dean's chest, and seeks shelter in his office.

* * *

><p><em>His knees grow week as he looks into the room. It's bright and reeks a stomach-turning smell, the walls a sickening green - and he can't stop himself from thinking Gabriel would have hated the color. Had he been able to see it.<em>

_Someone grabs his hand, and looking up he sees Balthazar at his side, a comforting look on his face._

"_Don't worry, Cas," Balthazar says, his eyes wide and glassy. "He's gonna be okay, I know he will."_

_Castiel isn't so sure. He looks to his mother, sat by the bed, crying. She's holding Gabriel's limp hand in hers, head bent down, resting on the bed next to him. _

_Balthazar squeezes his hand and folds the other tighter around little Anna with her bright red pigtails and pink loafers. Castiel looks down, suppressing a sob but unable to stop the wetness in his eyes from travelling down his cheek._

_Someone enters the room and Castiel halfway expects it to be Dad, but it's just another doctor in a white coat with a clipboard in her arms. The woman looks stern. She has a look of concern and sorrow painted on her face, but Castiel sees through it; he sees utter carelessness underneath her well-plastered features. He knows her words before she speaks them._

"_I'm sorry, ma'am," she addresses Mom, and Castiel's suddenly filled with anger. Why does everyone always say it's so hard for parents when their kids go before them? Isn't it worse for the siblings, the ones that have stuck with their brother through all the pain, all the hope gone wasted? When their parents were out being brilliant, holding lectures for young people they cared more about than their own children, that's when Balthazar and Gabriel would be home taking care of Castiel and Anna, and Castiel would try to be brave when Gabriel would have a seizure, helping Balthazar because it was just too hard for him on his own. Mom and Dad hadn't been there. Castiel had. _

"_He's not going to make it."_

_The sob finally escapes his lips, and Balthazar lets go of his hand as he throws both arms securely around his two remaining responsibilities._

* * *

><p>Dean stares after the white lab-coat as it disappears down the hallway, and a feeling of emptiness washes over him. He thinks of his brother again and realizes he still doesn't know what's happened. He looks to the bedside table and with all the strength he can muster he lifts his arm to the hospital phone and dials the number he knows by heart.<p>

"Sam!" Dean exclaims when the other end picks up.

Sam's voice when he replies is hectic, and Dean assumes he's been worried. "Dean? Where are you? I've tried to call you a million times!"

"I've been in an accident – don't worry, I'm okay," he quickly adds when he hears Sam winding up at the other end. "Anyways, I'm at Lawrence Memorial and they won't let me go – something about broken ribs or whatever, no big deal –"

"Dean, broken ribs are a big deal!" Sam interrupts hysterically.

"- I've seen worse anyways."

"How long do you have to stay? Are they taking good care of you?"

Dean smiles to himself. "Yeah Sam, I'm being taken care of."

"I'll come by right now." _Click_. No bye, Sammy doesn't like good-byes, Dean thinks, putting the phone down. He wishes dr. Mason would come back and keep him company before Sam gets there; not knowing how long it will take Sam and not knowing what to occupy his time with until he's there.

But dr. Mason doesn't come back, and after twenty or-so minutes Sam's arrived, tall, gawky and super-pissed at Dean's "recklessness".

"You _have_ to stop riding that bike, Dean. I swear, next time you crash I won't even visit you." Sam is too mad to look his brother in the eye. He's told Dean time and time again that that bike will be the death of him – but his stupid, irresponsible, _idiotic_ big brother won't listen.

Dean laughs, knowing full well that the day Sam won't come visiting him is the day hell freezes over, and Sam shoots him a death-glare at the sound.

"You know what you are, Dean?" Sam asks, unable to control the rise of his voice. "You're _selfish_. You're super selfish and you care about nothing but yourself. You're a _selfish human being_, Dean."

Dean snorts. "How am I selfish? When have I ever not put you before myself?"

"Every time you get on that bike you do!" Sam nearly yells, causing several head-turns out in the hallway. He looks self-consciously around and lowers his voice to a hiss. "Has it never occurred to you what might happen if you died? How hard it would be for me?"

"Oh, who's being selfish now, huh? _My death_ and suddenly it's all about you? Jesus, Sammy."

"I would be the only one left, Dean! And maybe I need you, okay? Maybe my life would suck pretty bad without you!"

Dean stares at him. "Fuck you," he murmurs, but his glare softens and his hand reaches out for Sam's shoulder. Sam only makes one attempt at shrugging it off, and Dean takes that as an okay to squeeze a bit.

"I hate you, you know," Sam says loudly, just as someone steps into the room behind him.

The person stops abruptly, turns and starts to walk back out, and Dean recognizes the voice of dr. Angel. "Wait!" he says.

Dr. Mason stops and turns to face them.

"What is it, doctor?" Sam asks anxiously, clutching Dean's hand. Dean makes a face of annoyance and looks apologetic at the doctor. _Sorry, my brother's just needy, this hand is all yours if you want it._

Castiel clears his throat. "The x-ray results came back," he says. "You have three broken ribs, one broken arm and you've suffered a defect to your knee and a minor concussion to your head -"

"Concussion?" Sam interjects, frowning incredulously at Dean. "You didn't use the helmet?" Disbelief clouding his features.

Before Dean can answer, dr. Mason has. "Oh, believe me, if he hadn't used a helmet he wouldn't be alive right now." There's something more than formal concern there, Dean recognizes with a jolt of delight. The doctor's tone is daring, accusing, as if Dean's death would mean something more to him than that of a regular patient. And Dean finds himself torn between hope that the doctor might care more for his well-being and guilt for being careless enough to risk his life. Because though he would never admit it, Sam is right; the bike is chancy and Dean's reckless to use it. Dean throws him a soft, sheepish look, and Castiel finds it intoxicating beyond his approval.

He can't believe it himself, but there's no denying it; he's developing a crush for his patient. The one thing doctors are not allowed to do. The one thing he promised himself he'd never let himself get into again. _At the very least_, he thinks, _Dean will be out of bed soon and I will never have to see him again. _

_Until the next time he gets in an accident_, a sneering voice inside his head argues. _And next time he might not be so lucky._


End file.
